


roses set on fire

by staticbees



Category: BioShock
Genre: (like everything else on my ao3 ever), Child Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, i wrote this a while back and i finally got around to finishing it, post-canon bad end, references infinite but its not important to the plot really, the title is from little pistol by mother mother, this fic got dark fast whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 05:34:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12336492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staticbees/pseuds/staticbees
Summary: They offered you everything, yes? And in return, you gave them what you always did: Brutality. You took what you wanted. All the ADAM. All the power. And Rapture trembled.Jack made his choice. Now he has to live with it.





	roses set on fire

Sunlight shines warm on Jack’s face, and he feels soft grass beneath his hands, dirt beneath his fingernails. Cheerful laughter rings out and he smiles, watching the Little Sisters play on the swings. He leans against an old oak tree, and stares up at the sky, wispy white clouds drifting overhead. 

 

He starts at the sound of footsteps behind him. Brigid Tenenbaum walks up and sits down next to him, silent for a moment.  ”It is lovely to see them so happy, is it not?"

 

Jack nods in agreement. 

 

"But they will never see this day,” she states, her voice turning cold and harsh. "You took this life from them, made sure they would never live to see the sun. There is no hope for one who kills when he does not need to.”

 

"But I  _ did _ have to,” he protests, even though he knows, deep down, that he  _ didn’t have to,  _ not really. "Without the extra ADAM, I would've died.”

 

"No. You were hungry. For power, for wealth, for ADAM. And so you took what you wanted, disregarding all who stood in your way. For this, there is no excuse."

 

Sally gets off the swing and turns towards Jack. There's a frown on her face, and tears glimmering in her eyes. Her milky yellow eyes are stretched wide, and her face is pale, splotched with patches of exposed skin. Her dark dress is stained with ADAM and blood. She stares accusingly at him for a moment, hands limp by her sides, before collapsing, a pool of scarlet rose petals spreading beneath her prone form. Jack starts, jolting backwards.

 

His vision goes dark. He feels a jolt of adrenaline, and his eyes snap open. Suddenly, he’s back in Rapture, flickering bulbs his only source of light. Splicers watch him from dark corners, their rabbit masks looking uncanny and alien in the dim light. Their eyes glow in menacing curiosity, limbs twisted and grotesque. 

 

He’s holding a Little Sister, who struggles in his grip, feebly attempting to push his hand away. Her eyes glow an unearthly yellow, and he can see his grim face reflected in her pupils. She cries in fear, her eyes wide. Jack can feel the splicers’ eyes fixed on him, waiting with a kind of sick curiosity to see what he’ll do. Tenenbaum watches him from the balcony, silent.  _ The first one.  _ The Plasmid burns in his veins, urging him onwards.

 

He hesitates for a moment longer, the cries of the Little Sister echoing in his ears. 

 

_ She’s not a child anymore. She’s a monster. Inhuman. _

 

His hand dulls to a dark emerald and black crackles across his fading vision. His hears his heart beating loudly in his ears, and his breath comes fast and hard. He flinches as a scream of pain and anguish echoes out of the dark. As his sight clears, he feels ADAM rush through his veins, filling him with a burst of power. 

 

Atlas assures him he did the right thing, but he knows in his heart he didn’t. 

 

And as he drinks the second bottle of Acadia Merlot, his vision going blurry, he resigns himself to the fact that when the time comes, he will continue to do so. The pull of more ADAM is too powerful, and although he has always considered himself a strong-willed man, this is one temptation he can’t resist.

 

-

 

Jack Ryan wakes up gasping, sweat pouring down his forehead. He feels sick to his stomach, nausea overwhelming him, and he has a pounding headache. 

 

He lies there for a moment, staring blankly at the ceiling, before reluctantly sitting up, dizziness briefly overtaking him. He grips the bed, fingers digging into the mattress, and glances at the dull apartment around him, a sigh on his lips. 

 

This place is he has the money to rent, now; ancient, dingy, reeking of cigar smoke and sweat. The landlord is convinced that it’s haunted, and Jack can see why. The pinstriped wallpaper is faded and peeling, and some of the floorboards are beginning to rot. The price of moving to the Big Apple, he thinks to himself bitterly. Higher prices and sketchy landlords.

 

Plasmid use and ADAM deprivation has taken a toll on him, and he isn't half as fit as he was when he was younger, muscles weak and bones fragile. He still has the Plasmids, but without EVE, there's no way to use them, and there probably never will be. 

 

He left his band of Splicers a month or so after reaching the surface, after they started suffering the effects of prolonged ADAM deprivation. Killing them all had greatly reduced the small amount EVE he had left, much to his chagrin.

 

A faint glimmer catches Jack's eye, and he instinctively whips around, drawing his gun. There's no one there, though, just an old, grimy door that he didn't notice earlier. Curious, he grasps the knob, trying to turn it. There's a dull clicking sound. It won't open, but it doesn't feel locked. He frowns, yanking it hard. 

 

It flies forward and so does Jack, who catches himself before he slams into the wall. He stands up, brushing off his stinging palms, and stares. There is an old crib in the center of the small room, with worn carved patterns and scratched wooden legs. A nursery, he realizes. There are cobwebs stretching across it, and Jack wonders why the landlord never got rid of it before renting the place to another tenant. Maybe she just never thought to open the door.

 

He shudders, turning away. Empty cribs have always bothered him; places where young children should be, but aren't. Maybe it's guilt over the Little Sisters, maybe it's just plain uneasiness, but it doesn't matter to him. He quickly exits the room, closing the door behind him.

He slumps into the crooked chair near the door, closing his eyes. A half empty bottle of bourbon sits on the rickety side table next to him, and his fingers wrap around the neck of the bottle, a stranglehold, as if he’s trying to choke the life out of it. People like him don’t  _ get  _ second chances, and what he did was  _ unforgivable. _

 

He has regrets, sure - more than he can count. But it isn't any use trying to change the past. The memories of what he’s done will only fade with the dimming of all lights, but in the meantime, alcohol works just as well.


End file.
